


don't you know there's an ocean of hope underneath the grey sky where you're dreaming?

by janie_tangerine



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Canon Era, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Needs a Hug, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Nightmares, Sharing a Bed, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, abandonement issues, unhealthy witcher approaches to handling emotional turmoil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:40:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23759992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: or: three times Jaskier comforts Geralt after a nightmare and one time Geralt returns the favor.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 51
Kudos: 625





	don't you know there's an ocean of hope underneath the grey sky where you're dreaming?

**Author's Note:**

> Or: I was taking prompts from a list of quotes on tumblr, I was suggested 'it's just a nightmare, you're safe' with this pairing, it completely fucking spiraled out of control because I couldn't decide who out of the two I wanted to have the nightmare aaaand this happened. WHAT IS BEING BRIEF, idek.
> 
> Other than that, nothing belongs to me, the title is from Brian Fallon as almost always aaaand have some tooth-rotting h/c fluff. ;)

1.

It’s the dead of the night when Jaskier wakes up, an insistent noise pulling him from his well-deserved sleep after a whole day on the road with the promise of two more before they reach the nearest town.

At first he dismisses it as some night bird, but when he can’t immediately fall back to sleep he realizes that it’s not — it’s something else. Not exactly a whine, no, more like _wailing_ , and now it’s gotten louder, and wait a fucking moment —

It’s not a bird. It’s not even some other random animal, it’s —

“Geralt?” He whispers, turning to his side, where Geralt is —

Well.

Turned on his side and looking stiff as a log except for the part where he’s shaking his head in his sleep and biting down on his goddamned forearm enough that it’ll fucking _bleed_ if he doesn’t stop soon, no, wait, it’s already bleeding, _shitshitshit_ —

Well, he can’t exactly go back to sleep now, and he’ll consider the fact that if Geralt has nightmares that bad he usually doesn’t have them in presence of anyone who’ll wake him up later.

He gets out of his bedroll, moving closer to Geralt passing their dead fire, and kneels behind him.

“Hey,” he whispers, “Geralt, come on, wake up,” he whispers, as reassuringly as he can.

Doesn’t work. Fuck, probably he doesn’t even hear him, considering how bad it looks like.

He swallows, then tentatively touches Geralt’s shoulder, shaking it a tiny bit. Nothing.

Fucking hell, even better. Now Geralt has made that noise _again_ and he’s drawing blood from his arm for real, and Jaskier really needs to do something here —

He reaches for Geralt’s waterskin, hoping that he refilled it before dinner — he had, and the water is cold, so — well. Here it goes. He reaches inside his trousers, finds a kerchief, douses it on cold water and moves it over Geralt’s eyes and _presses_ , hard enough that he feels Geralt go still and _finally_ move his hand back, and then he immediately moves the kerchief over his mouth.

For a moment, he feels like Geralt will punch him in the teeth, and considering their current position he just _might_ , so he figures he should put a stop to it _now_.

“Geralt? Hey. It’s me. It’s fine, we’re in the forest. It was just a nightmare, I’m going to move this away now,” he says, and Geralt nods as Jaskier does just that and moves in front of him again.

Well. He looks like complete shit — hair unkempt, bloody lips while the wound on his arm is still red and wide eyes that at least look like he’s realizing what happened. He lets out a relieved breath before he slumps against the bedroll.

“Sorry,” he croaks, and Jaskier wants to punch a goddamned rock.

“No need to apologize,” he says, “I just figured I’d wake you up. Looked bad.”

Geralt shrugs in assent. He says nothing else.

“Here,” Jaskier says, “let me clean that off.”

“I can do it,” Geralt protests as Jaskier moves closer again and starts wiping the blood off his arm, slowly. He _could_ , but he also looks completely exhausted.

“I know, but I don’t mind. And at least it’s superficial.” He cleans it off quickly, wetting the kerchief again a couple of times, and no one is more surprised than _him_ when Geralt lets him also wipe his mouth when he’s finished.

“All done,” he says. “You think you can sleep again?”

“I don’t know,” Geralt sighs. “I can try. By the way, if it happens again —”

“Yes?” Jaskier says when Geralt trails away for a long moment, not finishing the sentence.

“Just,” he says, “I don’t wake up easily when it’s like that. None of us does. Just throw that water in my face or _something_ , no need to be all careful about it.”

Then he lies back inside the bedroll and gives Jaskier his back.

Jaskier chooses to _not even entertain that thought_ because honestly, who the fuck wakes someone up from nightmares with cold water in their faces, he couldn’t do that to anyone never mind someone he _cares_ about, and tries to go back to sleep himself, knowing a finished conversation when he hears it.

He doesn’t, eventually, go back to sleep at all, and from the bags under Geralt’s eyes the next morning, neither did he.

2.

He _had_ felt the wrong vibes coming off Geralt since he came back from the latest hunt, which is why Jaskier, this time, had opted to _not_ push buttons nor ask what went wrong nor for details — the hunt itself was in the next village over, but as it was only a few hours away and had no inn, they had agreed that Jaskier would stay here and get the room ready other than make his coin and Geralt would join him after.

And he _did_ join… looking like he had the shittiest day of the last six months, covered in dust and blood that thankfully wasn’t his, and the only thing he said was that this one job hadn’t paid off before stalking upstairs.

Jaskier had finished his set, paid for their room and found him already sleeping, or pretending to. At least he did wash the dirt off his face.

He had taken the other side of the bed, as usual, and then he had gone to sleep feeling utter miserableness coming off in waves from the other side of the bed, which is probably why he had been sleeping uneasily until now —

Not that he wouldn’t have woken up with the bed basically _shaking_ because Geralt is about trashing on it, enough that the damned frame is trembling.

_Fuck_ , Jaskier thinks, _this is worse than that time in the woods_ , except that he can’t exactly go and dump the dirty cold water on him even if Geralt said he should —

He’s also pretty sure that Geralt has just about muttered _I can’t choose_ as if it’s the most painful thing he ever had to say in his entire life.

Well, _shit_.

He has to act quickly before someone else shows up, he has no cold water and he won’t use what’s in the basin, and if in order to wake Geralt up he needs to not be tentative…

_I sure as hell hope he doesn’t actually punch me_ , he thinks, and then puts an arm around Geralt’s shoulder, drags him down on the mattress and climbs on top of him, pushing both wrists against the pillows, _strongly_ , and good thing that he’s fit from traveling on foot _and_ holding the lute and that Geralt isn’t at his peak strength or he’d have no chance managing to hold him down.

He _does_ manage, though, and a moment later Geralt’s eyes blink open, unfocused, until they land on him, going wider, and he still feels like he’s ready to bolt.

“Hey,” Jaskier says, “it’s just me. You’re all right. It was just a nightmare. Can I let go?”

Geralt nods abruptly, and Jaskier immediately does, sitting up against the headboard while Geralt’s head falls against his bent legs a moment later, arms encircling them weakly.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, “ _shit_.”

He’s also covered in cold sweat and still looking like he’s about to burst out of his own skin, and — all right, maybe it didn’t work _while_ he was sleeping, but maybe… ah, fuck it, if Geralt tells him to fuck off he _will_ fuck off.

He clears his throat, puts a hand on his back, feeling that the shirt Geralt wore to bed is _soaked_ , then starts moving it up and down, slowly.

Geralt _doesn’t_ tell him to fuck off, at least. Still —

“That all right?” He asks.

Geralt gives him a terse nod, not even speaking, so Jaskier keeps on doing that until he relaxes a fraction, but it seems too little and he’s still so tense it would radiate from his posture even if Jaskier wasn’t touching him. Then he shudders visibly, but then again… it’s chilly and that shirt is soaked.

“Tell you what,” Jaskier says, “I’ll get some more water downstairs and a towel and then you can change into a dry shirt?”

Geralt gives him what sounds like an agreement hum, and he does nod again, so… he runs downstairs with the basin of water they had in the room, empties it in the back alley where there is also a pump to refill, he refills it and brings it back upstairs. Geralt hasn’t moved an inch, or so it looks like.

Well, _shit_.

He puts the basin on the nearest chair, wets the towel and clears his throat. “Uh, you might want to take that shirt off?”

Geralt nods again and does it, slowly, letting it fall to the ground, and Jaskier moves on to wipe his back first and his front later after he finally, _finally_ unclenches enough to do it, and he doesn’t miss that Geralt sighs a little when he wets the towel again and runs it over his face and forehead. He shudders again, but at least he’s not covered in sweat now — Jaskier heads for Geralt’s bag, finds a clean worn-out shirt that should be comfortable at least, and when Geralt doesn’t move beyond spreading back his arms he laces it up for him, which means that he has to straddle his legs in order to do it properly, and it ends with his hands right above Geralt’s neckline and fuck, he should probably move back and this is _not_ how he imagined this circumstance happening more than once, except that when his fingers trail downwards he feels Geralt’s heartbeat and —

It’s _way_ faster than his usual.

On one side, he doesn’t want to crowd him or anything.

On the other, it’s not like Geralt will ever _ask_ him if he needs anything, so —

He clears his throat again, moving a bit forward, his hand going to the back of Geralt’s neck. “This all right?” He asks, and the noise Geralt makes in reply makes it sound like it is, but still —

He tentatively runs a hand through the damp hair at the back of his head, tugging it a bit forward towards his shoulder but not doing anything further, just figuring that Geralt can take the offer if he wants to —

He doesn’t expect Geralt to tentatively move his forehead to Jaskier’s shoulder, a hand grasping a fistful of his shirt.

But good. He can work with this. He breathes out, moving his other arm around Geralt’s shoulders in an actual proper hug, and he gasps a bit when Geralt’s other arm moves around his waist.

That arm is also trembling.

Jaskier says nothing and goes back to running his hand over Geralt’s back while the other keeps on rubbing circles right over his scalp, and when Geralt _finally_ stops holding himself so tight and about sags against him he risks pressing a kiss to the side of his head, and at _that_ Geralt presses his forehead into his shoulder harder.

He doesn’t go to sleep, and the most he moves that night is turning them over so that he can lie with his back against the bed’s headboard and Geralt is about sprawled on his side, and the next morning Geralt’s cheeks are flushing when he says they can stay here another day rather than setting off at once and maybe he can sleep the morning off.

Jaskier can feel that Geralt doesn’t want to talk about it but he feels bad for having made him miss on sleep, and so he just accepts without pressing the issue even if he would like Geralt to know _he wouldn’t mind_.

When, three days later, Geralt haltingly tells him the truth about Blaviken for the first time, he grasps why he was whispering that he didn’t want to choose.

And he can’t help wondering, _it’s been years and he’s been dealing with it on his own, and where’s the fairness in_ that _?_

He knows no one will answer him if he asks out loud, least of all Geralt, but he thinks he _will_ try to write a song about it to rectify the situation soon.

It’s the least and only useful thing he can do, after all.

3.

The moment Geralt is out of _this_ particular fucking conundrum, Jaskier swears to himself, he _will_ convince him to not let poisonous monsters come close and bite him just to have a better shot at them, because regardless of the _I always heal and I’ll be fine regardless_ bullshit Geralt sprouts at any given moment, it can’t be good for him and considering that right now he’s trashing on the bed in the small cottage the farmers who hired Geralt lent them for the night, sweating all over the place and making _pained_ noises every other moment… well. It’s not good. At least Jaskier’s pretty sure that the bite healed fine and that it didn’t get infected.

The problem is that since this is no regular nightmare he hasn’t managed to wake him up, not with the usual methods — he went as far as pouring a bowl of cold water in his face and it didn’t work out, he tried to pin him to the bed again and it didn’t work, he went as far as slapping him in the face once when he screamed his lungs out and that didn’t work either. He has a feeling that witcher fever dreams are way worse than regular person fever dreams and at this point he supposes he’ll give up on waking him up and wait it out, even if it’s turning his stomach in all the worst ways and he’s _aching_ to put a stop to it.

Except that he _can’t_ , as much as he wants to, and he thinks again, _what would he do if I wasn’t here_ , and the answer being _probably riding it out on his own_ doesn’t make him feel any better.

“Fuck,” he says, sitting at the edge of the bed, putting a hand delicately on Geralt’s face, halfway hoping it’ll smooth out that grimace he has, “come on, _please_ wake up. I — I can’t see you like this and if you woke up I might be so relieved I could probably fess up to you a lot of things that I never had the guts to.”

He’s sure that there’s no way Geralt heard him —

Except that he stops trashing and presses back against his palm.

_What_ —

“Geralt?” He presses. “Geralt, are you —”

“ _Why_?” Geralt croaks, barely audible.

_What_ —

“Geralt? I don’t know, gods please wake up, I —”

He moves his other hand to the other side of Geralt’s face and Geralt suddenly stops moving that much and then he opens his eyes, but —

They’re unfocused, and he’s obviously not seeing _him_ because he makes an anguished noise before grasping at Jaskier’s wrist, tugging him closer —

“ _Don’t go_ ,” he says, sounding like his voice will die in his throat if he speaks any longer, and —

He’s crying.

Shit, there’s tears falling from his eyes and he’s not even realizing it because he’s not _seeing_ Jaskier and —

Fuck this noise, he has to do _something_ and he can’t hold it in anymore.

Jaskier leans down and presses his mouth against Geralt’s, softly, not pressing any further because he would hate kissing people without their consent but at this point he doesn’t know what else to do and he can’t hold it back anymore, and he leans back immediately, but when he does Geralt is blinking at him once, twice, and then when he opens his eyes there’s some recognition in them, _thank fuck_ because Jaskier was about to get a heart attack here.

“Hey,” he says, and Geralt sends him a _pained_ look, like he’s going to rip himself apart with whatever it is that’s ailing him, and so he leans back down a bit, running his thumb over Geralt’s cheeks. “Hey, it was just a nightmare, you’re safe, _please_ tell me what’s wrong because this was _bad_ and I’m dying of worry here —”

“Jaskier?” Geralt croaks, sounding… not _disappointed_ , but surprised, maybe, like he had expected someone else to be in his place.

“Yes,” he says, “that’s me. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Geralt looks at him like he doesn’t get what he’s fishing for. He clears his throat. “You — you told me not to go,” he whispers. “I know you meant someone else, most likely, but you didn’t hear it, so —”

“Oh,” Geralt blurts, his hands still grasping at Jaskier’s wrist, his entire frame shaking, his brow still covered in sweat. He seems to think about it for a moment but then he just looks completely fucking _drained_ as he blurts, _thought you were my mother. Doesn’t matter_.

Jaskier doesn’t think that’s very truthful.

“It didn’t sound like that,” he presses, softly, not moving his hands when Geralt also doesn’t move _his_. And — now that he said _she_ was the subject and asked _why_ first —

He can see the moment Geralt realizes he figured it out.

Before Jaskier can say anything, Geralt has closed his eyes and started talking again. “Left me on the side of the road when I was six or so. Pretty much at Vesemir’s doorstep. She told me to go get her some water and she was gone when I came back. Makes sense that _she_ wouldn’t want me first,” He sounds _tired_ as he says it, and Jaskier thinks that his heart just shattered at hearing it, and now he understands the _don’t go_ , and fucking _hell_ he never really had a choice in becoming what he is, didn’t he —

“Sorry about that,” he rasps again, except that his hands are still holding his wrists so strongly it almost hurts, “I shouldn’t —”

“Geralt, you’re really not going to apologize for _that_ , are you,” Jaskier interrupts him, and when Geralt opens his eyes and looks back at him he looks completely out of his depth, as he can’t even begin to process it, and —

Jaskier has to _do_ something about this. “Listen, I’m — I don’t even have words to describe how _livid_ hearing that made me, and you probably would rather kill yourself than talk about it, but — I can’t — I can’t conceive how anyone could ever _not_ want you,” he blurts, and it doesn’t cover a hundredth of what he could say, but the way Geralt looks at him, like he desperately wants to believe him, is making his heart break even further and fuck but he wants to kiss him again but right now he couldn’t, he _wouldn’t_ —

“There aren’t many people agreeing with you,” Geralt replies, tentatively, his hold getting a bit lax.

Jaskier shakes his head, moving closer.

“Fuck other people. I know what I’m seeing and I know what I want, and I know that if I ever had children I couldn’t bear leaving them on the fucking side of the road.”

Geralt snorts, _good_ , at least a bit of color that’s not just feverish is going back to his cheeks, but then —

“When you said you couldn’t conceive… how… people might not… you know.”

Gods, he can’t even bring himself to _say_ it.

Jaskier just nods encouragingly.

“… Did you mean… want me around? Or —”

“I meant something more than _that_ ,” Jaskier replies. “Want me to show you?”

He’s pretty sure that Geralt _can_ read him. He waits until Geralt nods tentatively, and then he leans down again and kisses him again, more firmly but still without pressing, and only leans back when Geralt sighs a little into his mouth, and when he moves back there are wide, warm golden eyes staring at him in wonder, and Geralt’s lips are barely parted, and —

“There’s more where that came from,” Jaskier whispers. “If you want it.”

“What if I do?” Geralt replies, so quietly but _surely_ —

Jaskier smiles, and for the first time this evening it doesn’t hurt to do it. “Then let me give it to you,” he says. “And for that matter, just in case it bears repeating: _I_ am not going anywhere. I’ve stuck with you for years, if you think anything can drive me away you’re sorely mistaken. Clear?”

“… Clear,” Geralt croaks, and then Jaskier kisses him and he’s kissing back and Jaskier is _not_ going to stop until Geralt’s slightly feverish skin doesn’t cool _and_ he forgets all about that damned nightmare.

Fucking hell. Figures that the poor man has trust issues to last ten lifetimes.

But he’s nothing but patient, and he’s certainly not fucking _leaving_.

+1

He _could_ have asked, Geralt reasons, if something was wrong.

Well.

_Something_ had been wrong for sure because Jaskier doesn’t usually _dislike_ most places they end up in _before_ they actually reach them, but he had been quieter than usual since they started skirting the Redanian border, and outright _silent_ when they reached the inn, where the owner had somehow recognized him and handed him a missive that had apparently been there for a while, waiting to be picked up.

Jaskier had read it, thrown it in the fire and proceeded to perform the most lackluster set Geralt has ever seen him perform, to the point where he cut it short and barely got any coin for it.

It was obvious something was wrong.

Except that when he tried to ask the words died in his throat, _as usual_ , and so he hadn’t, merely asked Jaskier if he wasn’t feeling too well.

“Sometimes,” Jaskier had sighed, “even a notorious bard doesn’t want people to know he’s passed by. Never mind. It’s fine. It went exactly as predicted.”

Geralt wasn’t too sure of _that_ , but he could hear that Jaskier didn’t feel like sharing on his own, and honestly… coming from _him, it_ would have been downright hypocritical if he forced him to talk, right?

Right.

So he said nothing, and when later that evening it felt like Jaskier was being a tad _more desperate_ than usual when as his fingers drove Geralt to peak one, two, _three_ times… he hadn’t really felt like _discussing_ anything, not when he could barely string two words together.

And _now_ he’s — well. He hadn’t really gone to sleep yet, just meditated for a while because something just wouldn’t let him, to be thrown out of it because he heard someone crying nearby and —

Yeah.

Nearby.

As in, _right next to him on the bed_ , which means that Jaskier is having a goddamned nightmare and a pretty fucking bad one, and he also doesn’t look like he’s going to wake up any time soon.

_Fuck_.

Thing is — it’s not that Geralt hasn’t ever… well. Woken someone up in this circumstances, and he also _has_ been woken up… _by fellow witchers_ back in the day, before and after the trials, dwindling as they were as most of them died, and — it was hardly a _delicate_ thing. They’d… shake each other roughly or throw cold water in each others’ faces and in a few occasions, well, he had to punch a few people to wakefulness and _he_ had been punched to wakefulness, because witchers don’t wake up easily and no one really felt like trying to do it softly rather than roughly would be a good idea nor what they were supposed to do.

Except that as — as much as he’s _not_ human and he knows he’ll never be, he’s not… _that_ much of a brute and he knows he can’t do _that_ to Jaskier, and maybe he could just shake him awake, but what if he’s too harsh or too strong and he ends up hurting him further when it’s the last thing he _ever_ wants to do to him?

He tries to think about it, his hand stuck as he extends it towards Jaskier’s shoulder, shy of touching it.

What had Jaskier done for _him_?

The cold water, not _on his face_ but through the kerchief. That could work… except that there’s no _cold_ water in this room, it’s summer, and he doesn’t have a fucking kerchief, just his dirty shirt thrown to the ground, and he wouldn’t — he wouldn’t.

Right. No cold water.

The second time —

Right. Jaskier had pinned him to the bed, which worked fine with him, and that’s doable, but what if it’s _too much_ and he’s too heavy and it ends up being what scares Jaskier off once and for all? Who knows what he’s dreaming about, he shouldn’t feel _threatened_ and surely _he_ would succeed at that —

Jaskier lets out another sob and turns on his side, his face finally visible, and _fuck_ it’s covered in tears and Geralt is fucking _useless_ like this and he can’t — he can’t be terrible at _this_ too, not when Jaskier’s done it for him so many times without even batting an eyelid even if _he_ certainly is no regular person and _his_ nightmares are no regular nightmares —

Oh.

That time he dreamed of his mother, Jaskier had —

Before he can overthink it, Geralt leans forward, tentatively pressing his lips to Jaskier’s, hoping that it works, keeping it as gentle as he can manage, feeling woefully inadequate and hating every second of it because Jaskier never was this tentative with _him_ —

He feels Jaskier go rigid for a moment, and he attempts to move back but then he doesn’t because Jaskier’s mouth is on his again, tentatively, not for long but enough to make him feel slightly less fucking inadequate, and then —

“… Geralt?” Jaskier says, his voice slightly shaking, a hand tentatively touching his hip, and when Geralt dares look at him he’s blinking at him with wide, wet blue eyes that Geralt wishes he wouldn’t see this clearly in the night.

Fuck, _fuck_ , he’s never in this position, he should _say_ something, he should at least be able to give him some modicum of comfort that’s not just _staring_ at Jaskier when he can’t even see him in return.

What did Jaskier say to _him_ , the other times?

“Yes,” he whispers, moves downwards, kisses him again. “Was — just a nightmare. You’re — you’re fine.” He hates how halting it sounds, and he’s not sure it’s very reassuring, so he just tries to make up for it with actions and draws Jaskier closer, and thankfully Jaskier seems to _get_ it because his arms go around Geralt’s neck and hang on tight, but — that’s fine. That’s good, he can do _that_ , and he can ask if Jaskier wants to talk about it even if at most he can listen to him, he thinks, and he feels Jaskier sighing against his chest when he does.

“It’s — nothing much,” Jaskier says, moving back. “Just, it’s near the family estate, I didn’t leave it on good terms and that letter was — the parents telling me to quit wasting my time and worry about my inheritance. Guess it got to me.”

Suddenly, Geralt feels cold — _worrying about his inheritance_?

“And — what are you going to do?” He asks, tentatively, and shit but he can hear that he sounded like he’d be disappointed if Jaskier says he’s considering it.

“What I do every time I pass by,” Jaskier huffs, “I’ll pretend I never read it and go on with my life. If I need a break from sleeping on the ground I have an open position in Oxenfurt whenever I want to, and I’d rather do _that_ if I had to go with a second choice. Worrying about the inheritance is my fucking _last_ choice.”

Oh.

Well then.

He clears his throat. “What if I said that’s… good to hear?” He tries, wishing he was _better_ at this —

He doesn’t expect Jaskier’s mouth to cover his at once, halting that sentence, but he’s quick to kiss back, and when Jaskier leans back he’s not crying anymore and he’s smiling down so very softly at him, and —

“You can be remarkably sweet when you want to,” he says, and then, “told you I wasn’t going anywhere. Now lean back down, I want to catch some sleep and I want to be comfortable.”

Not many people would assume that _he_ is more comfortable than the feather pillows the inn provided, but as Jaskier discards his to rest his head against Geralt’s shoulder, he decides he doesn’t mind this at all.

And he doesn’t feel so useless at _this_ , and that feels good, too.

End.


End file.
